Almost No Regrets
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Julian's thoughts on his last night at his former home.


Almost No Regrets

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Delirium/Pandemonium

Copyright: Lauren Oliver

I've always been a tidy person, it seems to run in the family – but making my bed and folding my laundry the night before my execution seems ridiculous. I don't know why I'm doing it. Maybe because the softness of the blue blanket, the smell of clean fabric and the routine of smoothing wrinkles and tucking in corners is the only thing that feels normal right now. Maybe I don't want to leave more of a mess behind than I already have. Or maybe it's just because I can't sleep.

It's strange, how tired I feel. Strange that my eyelids are still getting heavy, the world still distant and out of focus, colors deepening as they only do on the edge of sleep. Strange that my body still demands its share of maintenance, like it doesn't know it has only seven hours left to live.

The house is quiet, so quiet that the humming of the fridge downstairs puts my teeth on edge. I can hear every shift and rustle of the regulator guarding my door, every time he scratches or takes a sip of coffee. This is routine for him. Well, maybe not routine – how often do you catch a prisoner whose father leads the DFA? – but still, it's his job. I never stopped to think before, how many citizens make a living out of shattered lives.

Thinking of Father makes my hands freeze in the middle of their task. For a moment I can't breathe, gripped by the fear of a seizure that's never far away. I drop into my desk chair, elbows on the desk – _manners, Julian!_ – face in my hands.

Father. Standing there in his starched shirt and golden cufflinks, not even a hair out of place. He never even spoke to me. _This individual is no longer my son_, he told everyone – the lawyers, the journalists. Mother._ He is a traitor, and I expect him to be punished as such._ The indifference of it. I'd almost rather he had screamed and beaten me, like he did when I found his study. Like he did to James.

Father, I did everything right. For _years_, I tried to be the perfect son, the perfect reflection of your will. I wanted to make you proud of me, and you _were_, I know you were – the two of us onstage with matching Rolexes, in harmony, like two sides of a coin. Now, it's as if that never happened. As if I never even existed.

But I'm not sorry. I told Mother as much, when she tried to convince me to issue a public statement of repentance and accept the cure. Poor Mother was actually close to tears, as if just the sight of me in handcuffs was enough to override her procedure and a lifetime of control. _I should have spoken out for James, _she said, clutching her string of pearls like a prisoner's chain. _I should have, but I was too afraid. Julian, you're all I have left, and if I lost you – Thomas, for God's sake, please – _That's when Father caught her by the arm and led her away; I don't know what happened. Their wing of the house is soundproof. Knowing Father though, it won't be permanent. He needs her looking pretty for the photo ops.

I had no idea she cared so much. Please, God, if you still exist, don't let him hurt her.

Still, there is no way I can follow her advice.

If James could see this, he'd be laughing. All those years of trying desperately not to follow his example, and now I've done it anyway – and I regret nothing. If I could, I'd do it all over again. The ony thing I'm a little bit sorry for is that I never got to tell Lena how I feel.

I can see her every time I close my eyes, as if she were here with me: Lena, fierce and sharp-boned as a hawk, with surprising sweetness at the corners of her hazel eyes. Lena cleaning my cuts after our captors beat me up, with a brusque sort of kindness I'd never encountered before. Lena whispering her nightmares and holding my hand under cover of darkness. Lena fighting the Scavengers – a horrifying sight, but one I can't judge her for, since we each killed one, and therefore saved each other's lives. Lena in my arms that last night, strange and warm and wonderful.

She opened my eyes, cut through my preconceptions like a knife through butter. She inspired me not only to fight for survival, but to _live_. It's ironic that just as I've realized that, we were caught and sentenced to die. The last time I saw her, a regulator was pushing her into a car. They didn't even tell me where she is.

That's what hurts the most. She didn't have to stay with me, but she chose to, even though she would have been in much less danger by herself. In a way, I feel as if it's my fault she was caught.

I love her, and I can never tell her, even though I'm sure she already knows. I only wish I could have seen her one last time.


End file.
